be obvious: here comes the mailman, smiling—

A letter for you, Miss Jorgensen, and one

for your parents. One from Frank for me?

Ollie’s for all of us? I’m right about Ollie—

but as it’s not addressed to me, I put it aside.

My letter … is not from Frank. Familiar

handwriting I can’t quite place—Aunt Vera?

Why would she write to me, rather than to Papa?

Dear Muriel (small, careful script), I’m writing

to you because I’m about to embark on a journey

some might consider foolhardy, and many

are suggesting could be dangerous.

I sent your family, as I always do, the most recent

issue of Suffrage News, but it was returned—

the post office will no longer deliver what the government

deems unpatriotic. (Come to think of it, it is a long time

since we’ve heard from Aunt Vera—no letters,

no newspaper clippings, no political cartoons

from the Chicago papers.) It is not right that women

should have no voice in these matters of great

concern to us. President Wilson has his mind

on the war at the moment, but I, and many others,

refuse to let him ignore our cause—universal

suffrage for all adult citizens, in all states.

I am going to Washington to join the picket line

in front of the White House. (Have you heard

any news about this?) I am writing to say

I am doing this for you, Muriel, and for

Grace—for all the girls yet to be born. I expect

to be in Washington for one week. I’ll stop to see you

on my way home so that I can speak to you in person

about the reasons for what we are doing.

You give me courage, my dear Muriel.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

With love, Aunt Vera. I read the letter

over and over—foolhardy? dangerous?

She says I give her courage—how

can I give what I don’t have myself?

Fifteen Words / Muriel

Fifteen Words

Muriel

Dear Ma and Pa,

I’m fine. Could you send me some socks?

Your son, Ollie.

Papa pores over the Sears catalog

as if he’s ordering a tractor.

What do you think, cotton or wool?

What size? How many pairs?

Mama spends the weekend furiously

knitting—and finishes two pairs of socks by

Monday morning. I bake oatmeal macaroons

and Grace draws a detailed portrait of the cows

to add to the parcel we send off to Ollie.

No one says what we’re all thinking:

fifteen words after three weeks does not

sound “fine.” Could I board tomorrow morning’s

train—to Chicago, and from there to Kansas—

and take these socks and macaroons to him myself?

If, as I suspect, Ollie is not fine, could I tell

someone he’s too young to go to war?

Could I bring my brother home?

Politics / Emma

Politics

Emma

I’ve never really understood